


These Waters Shall Bring Me Home

by Asklepios



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: About Merlin's season 5 personality, Because Arthur forgetting Merlin was real shitty, Fix-It, Gen, I'm usually a slash fan, Some stuff is implied, With All My Heart, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asklepios/pseuds/Asklepios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn’t take kindly to being forgotten, Mordred has an epiphany, and Arthur just does his best. Coda to 5x09 “With All My Heart”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Waters Shall Bring Me Home

As Arthur walked away from the sandy lake shore, his hand in Guinevere’s and Mordred at his side, it took Merlin several seconds to realize and then accept the fact that Arthur was leaving without him. The prat was actually leaving him behind, and it was all Merlin could do to not throw a tremendous magical fit on the spot. In fact, if he hadn’t drained so much of his power for the aging and purification spells, he probably would have had a magical outburst of some kind.

Following just behind ‘have a tremendous fit’, Merlin’s initial impulse was to passive-aggressively ask Arthur if he’d forgotten something. But that was…it wasn’t good enough. If wasn’t nearly enough to express the feelings of awful hurt bubbling up inside him. Merlin was used to being less important, to being thought of as weak and useless and stupid, and he would always grit his teeth and bear the shame and anger in silence. But this. Arthur had gone too far with this. He needed to be shown that he couldn’t take Merlin completely for granted all the time. For years he had been the perfect servant to Arthur—the results of his work seen and felt as he stood in the shadows, ready at hand. He was Arthur’s sounding board, stress relief, and protector. He did so much for Arthur, and even if the young king didn’t see it all, that didn’t excuse his easy dismissal of what he did know Merlin did for him.

Even now, Merlin was wearing the form of an old woman to help Arthur and keep him in his comfortable ignorance, enduring the blow to his pride for the sake of his king. And Arthur repaid him with this. By forgetting about him.

Before he knew what he actually planned to say, Merlin found himself speaking to the king’s retreating back.

“Thank you for the gift, Arthur Pendragon.”

~~//~~//~~//~~//~~

Arthur turned around slowly, raising an eyebrow at the strange old sorceress. The kindness that he’d been so surprised by earlier was gone from her face, replaced with sudden cool indifference.

“What are you talking about?” he asked as strongly as he could, though he sure that his confusion shone through clearly in his voice anyway. He tightened the grip of his fingers around Guinevere’s, and spared a moment to think how good it was when she squeezed back. She was truly Guinevere again, the same kind and loving woman he had married three years ago.

The Dolma paused for a moment before speaking, seeming to consider the wisdom of what she planned to say. “The gangly boy,” she eventually said with an awful half-smile. Arthur felt his heart jump in his chest, the look on her face filling him with suspicion and dread. The words were harmless enough, but the sudden hardness in the old woman’s eyes brought his knight’s instincts to the fore.

“What do you mean? You are going to give him back to us.” Guinevere’s hand tightened further around his, and he knew that his clever wife had cottoned on to the situation at hand by just those few words exchanged.

“I don’t see why I should,” Dolma said in that odd, airy manner of hers, but where before it had been simply odd, almost funny, it now seemed faintly sinister, like a fog that would have you falling into a ditch and breaking your neck. “You’ve forfeited him to me.”

Letting go of Guinevere’s hand with some reluctance, Arthur drew his sword from its scabbard, holding the weapon ready but not yet leveling the blade at Dolma. In his head he was cursing a blue streak. Everything had been going so well. Guinevere had been restored to her true self, Dolma’s asked price had been, he’d admit, more than fair, and he’d been about to set off for home with his true queen at his side.

But now there was this. Arthur didn’t understand—Dolma had promised that she would give Merlin back once Guinevere was healed. She had done the magic to remove Morgana’s influence, had done it almost without being asked. She’d not tried to bargain for riches, or power, or anything—but then Merlin had supposedly already paid her with that awful dress. When he’d offered more to repay her, she’d asked only understanding. She had seemed so trustworthy, for some reason. He hadn’t felt the slightest bit threatened in her presence despite the fact that she was a sorceress. Was he truly so poor a judge of character? He’d been proven to have misplaced his trust multiple times in the past, but Arthur had thought he’d gotten better. Was he doomed to be forever blind to people’s true natures until they decided to reveal them on their own accounts, as with Morgana and Agravaine? He’d been blind to Guinevere’s traitorousness for so long, after all, even if it wasn’t by her own will. And now it seemed Merlin was in danger because of his poor judgment.

“I appreciate what you have done for Guinevere,” he began carefully, approaching Dolma slowly. “I have no desire to harm you. But you cannot have Merlin.” She looked at him—with incredulity?—before suddenly tearing her gaze from his face to look past him in poorly concealed shock. Arthur quickly stole a glance over his shoulder to see what had caught her attention and found Mordred brandishing his own sword, his young face tense and serious. Despite the situation, Arthur spared a quick thought for how naturally knighthood seemed to come to Mordred, and that he was proud to have such a man in his service.

Turning his attention back to the Dolma, he waited a moment for her response to his declaration.

“And why not?” she said stiffly, turning her nose up in a move that Arthur was fairly sure was uncharacteristic of her. “You forfeited him. You forgot him. Clearly he’s not very important.” Arthur’s hand clenched tightly around his sword hilt as anger flashed through his mind, clouding his thoughts. How dare she call Merlin unimportant?

“How dare you!” Guinevere suddenly snapped, apparently echoing his thoughts. He heard the rustle of her wet skirts as she made to stride forward and held up a hand in a silent request for her to stay back. There was more rustling and Arthur knew she was fighting with herself, almost every bit as protective of Merlin as he was, but then she sighed and he knew she would let him deal with the situation—for now.

“I—perhaps mistakenly—trusted you to return him to us, as per your word,” he said to the Dolma, and now he did level his blade at the old woman. “Do I need to convince you to keep it?”

“Trusted me?” she echoed. For some reason these words were filled with bitterness, and the Dolma made an aborted motion with her head that could have been her wanting to spit. “Yes, you trusted me when you had need of me. When your queen was in peril and beyond your help, you trusted a sorceress. But now she is healed, and you threaten me for a boy you don’t even care enough about to remember.” She seemed to be growing angrier with every word she spoke, until her old eyes were flickering gold like a dying candle. “You are most clearly a Pendragon!”

“Listen here!” Arthur began, his anger rising to match hers as he strode forward with his sword pointed at her chest. He was stopped by a firm hand on his arm, and he turned in surprise to see Mordred, who had lowered his own sword and was staring hard at Dolma, his blue eyes narrowed.

“Forgive me, sire, but I believe there is more at play here than you might think.” Mordred did not turn to look at him as he said this, merely continuing to match gazes with the fuming Dolma.

“Sir Mordred,” Arthur said indignantly, for lack of anything better to say. Mordred let go of Arthur’s arm, but did not move from his side.

“Dolma,” he now said clearly, addressing the sorceress, and Arthur was surprised to see the furious look she directed at his young knight. Mordred hadn’t done anything to offend her as far as Arthur could tell, but by this point he was beginning to have doubts about the soundness of her mind.

“Is it possible that Morgana’s power was not completely destroyed?” Mordred questioned, his voice tense but tones even. Arthur started at this, casting a desperate look behind him at Guinevere, still soaking wet and beautiful despite it, watching the proceedings with huge dark eyes and fists clenched at her sides. Before Arthur could despair too much, though, Mordred continued, “Could not some of the spell have survived and fled…into you?” He said these last words with obvious wariness.

Dolma was completely still for a moment, the golden light in her eyes blazing strongly, before she recoiled from Mordred as if he’d struck her. The gold in her eyes had abruptly gone out.

“Not…destroyed?” she said wonderingly. “Into me?” she asked with outrage, now focused on Mordred. 

“Doesn’t it seem strange that you’re acting this way?” the young knight pressed on boldly, apparently deciding that if he was in for a noble he was in for a crown. “Isn’t this anger unlike you?”

“How would you know?” she huffed, turning up her nose again, the action seeming no more natural this time than it had before.

“Perhaps you should cast the spell? Prove that you are not being influenced,” Mordred said, ignoring her query.

“I have no need to prove anything to you,” she said fiercely, and Arthur had a sudden and powerful feeling that he was missing something.

“If the spell did go into you,” Guinevere cut in again, but this time sounding much less angry and much more kind. “Even if there’s just a chance of it, you should heal yourself. It’s…insidious, you don’t even know yourself. You don’t realize you’ve been controlled until you’re free.” She seemed to be struggling now, remembering her experience, and Arthur felt his heart ache for the suffering his wife had endured at Morgana’s hand. Dolma looked at her with wide, wondering eyes, until Mordred spoke again and her gaze returned to him.

“Do you really want to risk being a slave to another’s will? When you could be sure of your self right now with just one spell?” Mordred paused, seeing this wasn’t yet enough. “Do you want to serve Morgana?”

For a moment Arthur wondered if even Morgana’s name had a measure of power to it, for these seemed to be magic words. The Dolma’s eyes flashed angry gold and she turned on her heel before striding purposefully into the water of the Cauldron. Once she was waist deep, the icy waves lapping at her stomach, she raised her arms above her head. As with Guinevere, the moment she began to speak the words of the Old Religion the waters around her brightened with brilliant white light, growing stronger with every word she spoke. The Dolma’s voice rose as the light grew brighter around her, until a last shouted word obscured her from all sight and unleashed a burst of light so brilliant Arthur had to close his eyes against it.

As the light dimmed Dolma’s hunched form came back into view, bent almost double over the water, her hands clutching at her chest. Arthur wondered if she might be fighting a losing battle with nausea.

“That…that was not Morgana’s power,” the Dolma said quietly, her voice coarse. “That was not her at all. That wasn’t even recent,” she said, looking up at them all gathered on the shore, her eyes wide and unfocused. She seemed disoriented and confused, but somehow Mordred didn’t seem very surprised. Arthur, for his part—and Guinevere, he confirmed with a quick look at his wife—was unsure what to make of any of it.

“How long has that been there?” she asked faintly, though Arthur didn’t know who she expected to answer her. None of them knew much of anything about magic. She turned her gaze away from them and looked to the water she stood in before any of them could think to speak, perhaps now asking her question of the waters themselves. For a while no one could bring themselves to break the silence.

“Leave,” Dolma rasped suddenly.

“Not without Merlin—” Arthur returned stubbornly without pause, but he cut himself off when she feebly waved an arm at him, clearly exhausted. She seemed much older now, quite unlike the powerful—if bizarre—sorceress she had appeared to be earlier when he’d first met her and she’d so confidently cast the spell to cleanse Guinevere. Power had practically rolled off of her then. And when she had spoken she had seemed energetic and youthful, the only signs of her true age being her lined face and the slight stiffness she displayed when standing up. Now as Arthur looked at her—hunched over, taking ragged breaths, her drenched clothes hanging heavily on her aged frame—she seemed to be feeling every year of her age and more. He couldn’t quite bring himself to yell at her right now.

That didn’t mean, however, that he would let her keep Merlin.

“I’ll send him after you,” she said tiredly as she began to slog her way to shore, her soaked skirts clearly hindering her. The instincts instilled by years of following the teachings of chivalry suddenly came to life within Arthur, demanding that he not let an old, infirm woman struggle alone in front of him. With a sigh he plunged the blade of his sword in the sandy lakebed and stepped forward to help her out of the water—it wasn’t as though his breaches and boots weren’t soaked already. She took his arm without a word, and even though he had known her for less than an hour he could easily read that as a sign of how truly exhausted she was. He helped her make her way to the shore where Mordred and Guinevere both waited, and he was only slightly surprised when they came forward to help ease her onto the sand. Dolma sat with a heavy sigh, and when Mordred sat down beside her she simply leaned her weight against him with the easy readiness of one old friend getting comfort from another. It was hard to believe she’d been looking at him—at all of them—with such furious anger only moments before. Arthur looked at the gently lapping waters of the Cauldron with new respect. It was clearly very powerful and, though a lifetime of his father’s teachings told him otherwise, could be used for great good.

“I’ll send him,” she said again, breathing slowly and deeply at Mordred’s side. “I need to use magic to get him out of where I’ve hidden him, and it’ll take me some time to build the power back up. I’ll send him on in an hour or two.” She put her face in her hands, overcome with exhaustion. Arthur shifted slightly awkwardly where he stood, and when he looked to Guinevere he found her gazing at the old sorceress with an expression of deep sympathy. Again Arthur grieved for his love’s suffering, and he walked to her side to take her hand in his. She looked up at him and smiled, and Arthur had never seen anything more beautiful.

“How long was that there?” Dolma said in a much lower voice than Arthur had yet heard from her. It was almost masculine. “Where’d it come from?” She seemed to be speaking more to herself than anything else.

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “We’ll wait two hours,” he said as sternly as he could manage. “If we haven’t seen Merlin by then, we’re coming back.” He waited for the Dolma to nod tiredly and lift her head off of Mordred’s shoulder before retrieving his sword from where he’d stuck it in the sand. Mordred got to his feet with a sigh, chivalrously helping the sorceress to her feet and leading her to sit on a low, flat stone. Arthur barely noticed as the young knight gathered up the bags Merlin had been carrying before hastening to stand with his king and queen.

“Farewell, King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, Knight Mordred,” Dolma said with unexpected gravity, nodding to each of them in turn. They acknowledged her with inclines of their own heads and set off down the rocky path. Arthur spared a look over his shoulder at Dolma to see the old sorceress leaning her head back against the rock behind her, her eyes closed in abject weariness.

It was almost two full hours later and Arthur was just about to set off down the path towards the Cauldron again when Merlin staggered into view. The gathered company scrambled to rise and meet him. Guinevere reached him first, wordlessly throwing her arms around his neck and holding him close. Walking at a more sedate pace behind his wife Arthur approached the pair with a broad grin, seeing Merlin lift his hands to place them chastely on his wife’s back while pressing his pale cheek against the side of her head, closing his eyes in what Arthur knew well to be relief. He was stuck with the realization that Merlin must have been missing the true Guinevere too—not as dearly as Arthur, of course, but sometimes Arthur forgot how strong their friendship really was, too wrapped up in his own relationships with each of them to remember what they meant to each other.

Arthur watched the scene before him with a warm feeling of relief making its home in his chest. That relief faltered a little as Guinevere relinquished her grip on Merlin only for the man to nearly fall over, saved only by Mordred’s quick reflexes as the knight caught a quick grip on Merlin’s upper arm. Arthur could tell that Merlin’s suddenly weak knees had greater cause than relief or his usual clumsiness.

“Merlin, what happened to you?” Arthur asked, not bothering to hide his concern. “Did Dolma do something to you?”

“She took some of my energy,” Merlin said, sitting heavily on the ground. Seeing Arthur open his mouth in protest, he quickly continued, “I let her. That’s a very powerful spell she did for Gwen, Arthur. Just attempting it would kill most sorcerers. She was about ready to collapse.” Merlin gave him a slightly admonishing look—even though Arthur was supposed to be the one admonishing him—that was so familiar it stopped the king in his tracks. That look was of the old Merlin, the one he hadn’t seen in what felt like years, the Merlin that always smiled and would forever make the case for mercy where mercy was an option.

Arthur looked at him with wonder for a long moment before he suddenly found himself smiling broadly. “Alright then,” he said. “We’ll give you a bit longer to rest, but then we should set off so we can hopefully get out of this valley before dark. There’s not enough wood here to make a fire, and I don’t want to risk getting attacked by Morgana again, even if she does seem to have left.”

Merlin nodded in acknowledgement before waving Mordred down to sit beside him, and like the Dolma before him leaned heavily against the young knight’s side. Arthur couldn’t help but think that this sight looked much more natural, somehow, despite the fact that infirm old women should be far more suited to using knights as headrests than healthy young manservants were. But then Guinevere was sitting down on Merlin’s other side, and Arthur put his thoughts aside and moved to sit down beside her. His wife easily slipped one arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder while holding one of Merlin’s pale, slender hands in her own. The contrast between their skin was remarkable, the night against the day, but both hands were slender and strong and gripped the other tightly.

Arthur let himself revel in the feel of his wife’s warm body pressed against his side, holding her free hand in both of his, listening to her soft breathing and Merlin’s sighing exhalations just beyond her.

After perhaps half an hour of resting, Arthur reluctantly roused his dozing wife and friend and got the group moving. Seeing how Merlin swayed dangerously on the spot when he was not yet even moving, Arthur wordlessly began to gather their packs to carry himself. When Guinevere gathered several bags to sling over her own shoulders he opened his mouth to protest, but when she fixed him with a familiar, stern look he let it slide. Guinevere was stubborn, and always reluctant to stand by idle while others worked in front of her despite having been queen for nearly three full years. She was also, Arthur remembered a little bemusedly, the most well rested and hale of all of them present, having been carried the whole way there.

King and queen exchanged knowing glances as they listened to Merlin stumble about behind them, easily bearing their gear on their shoulders like servants as the actual, unburdened servant tried very hard not to fall over.

Apparently having realized that he would not be going anywhere soon under his own power, Merlin waved somewhat imperiously to the young knight already standing attentively at his side, saying, “Mordred, you’re a strapping lad, help me stagger,” before overbalancing and nearly taking a spectacular tumble onto his face.

Arthur laughed with honest joy as listened to Mordred struggle to keep Merlin upright, holding Guinevere’s hand in his own and looking into her smiling, honestly loving eyes for the first time in months. He had not only gotten his love back, as he had intended, but his dearest friend had somehow been restored to his former self as well, though Arthur would be damned if he knew how. Looking at Merlin now—smiling that brilliant sunshine smile that Arthur had missed more dearly than even he had realized—he found that he didn’t much care how or why Merlin had come back to him, just that he had. The two most important people in his world were back to their old, wonderful selves. Even the strange distrust he’d watched Merlin hold against Mordred for so many months had suddenly disappeared, and Merlin was finally treating the young knight with the kind warmth and camaraderie he’d withheld for so long.

Even though Morgana was still running around causing magical trouble somewhere and he would have to have a long and likely very uncomfortable talk with his wife when they got home, Arthur found he couldn’t bring himself to care very much about any of that just at the moment. For now, for just a while, all was right with his world, and King Arthur was content.


End file.
